


Sigh No More

by merethengilith



Series: Riptide [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War of the Ring, Some Plot, but like during the events of lotr, gimli and legolas are having drinking contest round 2, gratuitous wedding planning montages, imagine not elaborating on the house of dol amroth rip to tolkein but im different, mostly happy though, place your bets is the baby or the wedding happening first, political ramifications yay, the dol amroth lads and faramir have a pinterest board and refuse to be upstaged, trade talks what is this the phantom menace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22127050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merethengilith/pseuds/merethengilith
Summary: Lothìriel had prepared herself for a year-long engagement, she’d even prepared herself for an inevitable delay of at least two or so years on account of her comparative youth, though a gap of eight or so years was nothing compared to the decades between her cousin and his wife or centuries of the new King and Queen of Gondor. She thought she would have had time to wander the beaches lazy sunset after lazy sunset and walk through the early markets for one last time.But in an unforeseen move it would appear her father was surprisingly enthusiastic on the whole bringing-the-wedding-forward idea. Lothìriel was of the opinion that she was not particularly fussy when it came to party planning. But truth be told, if her brothers (and cousin) were insistent upon making this wedding the most ostentatious thing that all of Arda had seen in its four ages she may as well just elope instead.Or: In which Amrothos, Erchirion, Elphir, and Faramìr try to outdo the Kardashians
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Riptide [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574845
Comments: 26
Kudos: 61





	1. Dawn Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGGRESSIVELY PLAYS BILLY IDOL’S WHITE WEDDING IN THE BACKGROUND. Title for this was taken from Much Ado About Nothing which I think has a nice double meaning with both interpretation of the song lyrics and of course Lothìriel’s perpetual exasperation as the wedding planning continues. If her brothers could have the middle earth equivalent of a pinterest board they probably would alongside a dedicated wedding Instagram account.
> 
> This does pick up directly from the end of Riptide so head on back over to that work if you'd like. Also for those of you familiar with the previous piece, we are getting a brand new character’s perspective!

He was rather shocked, truth be told, when she had dragged him hand-in-hand still dripping wet with sea water to go see her father. How he was pulled around by such a _small_ force of nature was completely beyond him, how _anyone_ could have taken the sight of them seriously was beyond even Éomer’s comprehension. And in this day and age he’d become accustomed to myths of old proving themselves to be true.

Or false, for Legolas and Gimli were the greatest of friends despite the historical enmity of their peoples.

But he would have at least appreciated some time to compose himself, after all, should news of his current appearance reach his sister (and more importantly her witty-tongued husband) he could only assume that the latter would be _delighted_ to report back to his King. Lothìriel only continued to run through the halls of the white-stoned palace, dragging him through a series of empty corridors and service tunnels until they had reached the familiar doors of Imrahìl’s chambers. The sun was beginning to crest over the distant headlands, the shadows of furniture drawn long as the objects themselves were bathed in the bright spring light.

“Your highness… Y-your Majesty,” A nervous guard stuttered as he stood before the immense oaken doors. “This is _quite_ early,”

“And my father will be unoccupied and awake. This is a matter of urgency, Istuion.”

“Yes I can see that,” Istuion straightened his robes of Dol Amroth blue and with a tired look at Lothìriel struck his spear against the stone floor in three short taps. “Her Highness the Princess Lothìriel and-“

“No, don’t mention him!” Lothìriel said in a frantic whisper.

“ _Just_ Her Highness, the Princess Lothìriel.” Lothìriel levelled the man with a displeased glare before tucking her wet hair behind her ears and handing Éomer the towel that had been draped about her formerly wet self. Her chemise now appeared to be as dry as it could manage in the morning sun.

“I don’t think your lack of shirt would be entirely wise,” She quickly turned her head in a slight panic.

“Lass I would argue that the ungodly hour and our current attire is _extremely_ appropriate. It would make quite the favourable impression upon your father.” Éomer murmured under his breath while Lothìriel began to make her way through the doorway with a muffled laugh.

He had never seen these rooms before, though similar to in style to all others in this palace there was something almost… unnatural about these rooms. Perhaps unnatural was not the right word, but the appearance of the room did not match the appearance of the man who occupied them. No, Éomer could not reconcile the dark wood and deep navy drapery, the lack of personal affects scattered about, the lack of sheer life present in these rooms with the man that he knew.

The rooms reminded him of how he and Éowyn had left Theodred’s rooms following his death. All his trinkets and scrolls removed, his collection of armour and weapons transferred to the armoury. His old clothes were given to the young children of the Westfold who had been lost all their possessions in the razing of their homes and his horse given to his young squire. Once Éomer had finished loading the final boxes the room stood as Imrahìl’s did now, dressed only in sparse drapery and the furniture that had stood there for centuries. The Prince in question was seated by a set of tall windows as he drank his usual morning tea in silent contemplation. Éomer noticed with some amusement that both he and his daughter had the exact same face when deep in thought.

“Ah, well… this is quite a…” Imrahìl’s greeting caught in his throat as he noticed their states, “well, it’s certainly something.”

“Ada, I have something to say. I know it may come as a shock to you, but I am of age and of some minor means. I invested my dowry and inheritances out of my own will and have made some profit, I am also wholly capable of running a household and governing my people as you have so taught.” Éomer had been so determinedly staring at the distant horizon beyond the window that he had completely missed his new fiancée kneeling before her seated father, head bowed in deference though her tone was certainly determined.

“I-I uh, Valar above you’re with child aren’t you?” The blood from Éomer’s face immediately drained, turning in quiet panic to the equally as shocked Princess.

“ _Ada!_ ” Lothìriel screeched before rapidly-paced Sindarin began to slip from her tongue as she hastily stood up to move by Éomer’s side again. In his addled state Éomer only briefly caught the words ‘not long enough’ and ‘impossible’. Though her surmised that she, like he, had done the brief mental arithmetic to realise that even if _that_ had occurred; it would be highly improbable that Lothìriel would even know if she was with child. “That is very much the sort of thing Amrothos would do, but not I!”

“Loth, my apologies, but surely even you can understand that seeing me in such a state one can only wonder-”

“Imrahìl, I can give you my word that nothing untoward has occurred. We have only recently discussed an engagement and you must forgive us for our enthusiasm.” He hoped he was as sincere as possible given the fact he was of course barefoot, dripping wet, and lacking a shirt.

Éomer watched Imrahìl’s face quickly school itself from the shock he had presented to something akin to surrender for the briefest of moments. A ghost of a thought made its way to the edge of his tongue before closing his mouth and simply deciding to smile. He wasn’t sure whether he wished to know what it was Imrahìl was deliberating at this very moment.

“Lothìriel,” Imrahìl began “You are aware of how this will look to the rest of the world?”

His betrothed calmed her unsteady breath before meeting her father with stern eyes, “Yes, Ada. They will slander your name. I understand if a courtship period is required and I am more than-”

“No,” He interrupted. Lothìriel’s mouth fell slightly ajar at the single word. “That won’t be necessary. As I understand Éomer King, your council have been strongly suggesting that you marry?”

“My Lord, yes but I don’t understand…” Imrahìl stood up, adjusting the folds of his robe as he walked towards his daughter. Worn hands cradled Lothìriel’s jaw, a thumb idly running over her bronzed cheeks.

“Then understand that I am giving you both my blessing.” He pressed a kiss to his daughter’s brow, lingering for a moment before looking at him. Éomer’s ears rushed with the sound of blood and the distant waves, unsure if what had transpired was at all real. “You are both yet young, I would not begrudge our people new blood.”

“Is that all?” Éomer barely managed to choke out, “I am more than willing to negotiate periods of courtship and even transition. Your daughter has never been to our lands and-”

“My daughter has spent her whole life wading into the deep waters, as her older brothers will no doubt tell you.”

Lothìriel still stared at her father, her lips unable to form words. “Father this has to be some jest, some ill-prank.” She finally managed to laugh aloud, “You need not _lie_ to me, I can wait!”

“Lothìriel.” His tone was curt, all sharpness and none of the customary warmth he had become used to. There was something else there Éomer couldn’t place, something that sounded like woundedness. Lothìriel flinched, her brows furrowing and eyes darting about trying to understand what had caused the sudden turn in his countenance. “I lie not. You will marry whenever it is customary to hold a marriage within the Mark, correct me if I am wrong, but your Lady Grandmother had once mentioned in passing that this season is in the winter?”

“Aye, we do not usually hold to it. But I suppose given the war it will be welcome.” Éomer bowed deeply before reaching out and taking Lothìriel’s dainty hand in his own. He idly noted that it was shaking.

“Do not look so forlorn, you’re a betrothed couple, you’re supposed to be unable to keep your hands to yourselves.” Imrahìl reprimanded playfully, tapping Lothìriel’s cheek fondly. “Please, do not misunderstand, I truly am deeply happy for the pair of you and I do wish for nothing other than your happiness. Now, I do believe there will be some formal announcements to make!”

With that Imrahìl bundled together the front of his robes and moved towards his doors, Istuìon hastily announcing his imminent arrival to the rest of the palace. Together he and his betrothed merely stared at each other, the events before them having unfolded in the same way one would expect herding a bunch of cats would work out.

“Oh _fuck_ , Ada is going to tell Ivrinìel.” Lothìriel blurted aloud, grabbing onto the front of his shirt in slight panic. His mind quickly joined the links, beginning to feel the rising of panic in his own throat and anticipating the possible future castration.

“So… elopement?”

* * *

Amrothos didn’t think any of his brothers were quite prepared to confront this moment. Perhaps Erchirion had seen it most, Amrothos considered, after all as captain of the Navy he had answered most to Lothì during her year as the Princess of Dol Amroth.

“As you can understand, this is quite a problem.” Amrothos nodded at his eldest brother’s words, his calloused fingers tucking beneath his chin before leaning back into his seat. “Are we prepared?”

Their mother had called for them all those years ago, frantic and tears streaming down their faces, the three brothers had sprinted towards the chambers their mother had been confined to. Amrothos had barely been ten, still playing with his toy soldiers and the little swords that cousin Boromìr had gifted him. Erchirion had been rambling about the garden, pulling out the weeds the way _Nana_ had taught while handing over some dainty blooms to his eldest brother. Elphir had begun to weave the little blooms into the beginnings of a wreath as a present for their newest sibling.

Meldawen had held on for a few more brief moments, holding her boys in her arms as Imrahìl pressed a final kiss to her sweat-covered brow. And while his brothers had cried desperately for their mother to come back, Amrothos’ gaze had been directed to the small, screaming bundle of cloth being hushed by the newly-hired nursemaid. Perhaps he had been too young to fully comprehend what was happening- for all his life he had been the baby, the one sheltered by everyone in his family. But he had been drawn nevertheless to that red-faced baby and he had asked the nurse to let him hold it.

And his mother’s final words whispered into his ear continued to drift through his shocked mind.

‘ _Hold her.’_ She had said. It was all Amrothos could think of.

The nursemaid, although hesitantly, handed over his sister and instructed that he keep her very quiet. He was instructed to take her to the room outside and hand her to one of the waiting women who would then feed her. The women were very kind and they had handed him little seashells and ruffled his black hair until the baby was ready to be held again.

The next three days had passed as such. He held the baby, sometimes Erchì and Phìr would switch places as they guarded over the little thing. Phìr at one point had placed the now drying wreath of blooms above her brow and their sister had given such a dispassionate face for a babe her age that the three brothers could not help but laugh. The little thing had _hated_ it, bawled her lungs out louder than could be imagined. Louder than dragons, Erchì had complained.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to any of them then that Lothìriel dragged the fucking King of Rohan into their father’s bedchambers while barely dressed and dripping sea water over the floor.

“I thought we had been in agreement, the coin we put aside still remains alongside what father and Phìr agreed was her dowry.” Erchìrion reminded them both, hand nervously pulling auburn hair back as he tended to. It seemed an age since all three of them had piled into Elphir’s quarters, those sort of meetings had declined the older they got, the more their father wanted them to become involved with the militia, and the more Elphir snuck off to go and see his now wife. “Unless of course Cousin Faramìr has anything to say on Rohirric tradition?”

“Fara informs us that there may be some Rohirric tradition that we will have to be accustomed to, but Eòmer does not need for them to be followed and Lothì would rather die a thousand deaths than follow Gondorian courting rituals.” Amrothos recalled a brief conversation he’d had with his cousin. Eòwyn, as the bride, decided to follow instead the traditions of Gondor prior to the marriage. “He’s also increased our funds for the event as Boromìr had left some money aside for Lothìriel once she had come of age. ”

“She’s going to hate us, but I’d rather be strung up naked and disembowelled by orcs than be seen giving Lothìriel an embarrassingly poor wedding.” Elphir stared into the bottom of his empty goblet, defeat to his younger brothers already conceded. “We’re going to need more wine for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you all enjoyed that and feel free to let me know what you thought! I loved replying to all of your comments and reviews last time and I received some really touching ones as well. I'm glad that this piece has meant as much to all of you as it has to me <3
> 
> Anyway, next chapter will be up soon and hopefully not as angsty as this one turned out rip.


	2. Morning Dew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it a long boi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ve probably caught on but each of these chapters will be fairly long, but I found it hard to split them without ruining the flow of the entire story and it’s pacing. Tbh I’m playing pretty hard and fast with the date of their marriage. I think it’s a little in contention anyway about whether it was TA3020, 3021, or FA01. 
> 
> This chapter was meant to be longer and include the start of wedding preparations but uh yeah Lothìriel really took the wheel here and I felt that we needed to see this part of Lothìriel’s psyche before The Wedding Of The Century™.
> 
> Also gotta love the Australian dichotomy of being on fire to being flooded within the space of 48 hours. Seriously though, thank you for all the support you've been giving the Australian community, it really has meant a lot to all of us to see that people care.
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely comments so far and a lovely welcome to both readers of Riptide when I first published as well as new ones :)

For the briefest moment she had thought she had returned to the sea. It was impossible, she knew she had followed the road northwards. But here she was, watching the sun rise over the Misty Mountains, golden rays catching upon dew clinging upon waist-high expanses of grass, rippling in the gentle breeze.

“Lothì?” She could barely hear Amrothos’ question, her feet seeming to move of its own accord. The first of the winter storms were beginning to build in the distance, the cold tendrils of wind chilling her skin and causing goose pimples to rapidly form. Her boots quickly became slick as she parted the waist-high grass with her toes, the damp already beginning to seep into her woollen tunic. But still she walked, feeling her hand wick over the dew-covered stems and her face warmed by the golden light.

“You could be a fae, sister!” Erchirion called from the edge of the road, bright copper hair catching alight in the morning sun. “Come, we must get you to Edoras. I hear there’s a particularly nervous betrothed waiting for you.” She idly nodded and began to return to the camp, lost in her thoughts.

Lothìriel had prepared herself for a year-long engagement, she’d even prepared herself for an inevitable delay of at least two or so years on account of her comparative youth, though a gap of eight or so years was nothing compared to the decades between her cousin and his wife or centuries of the new King and Queen of Gondor. She thought she would have had time to wander the beaches lazy sunset after lazy sunset and walk through the early markets for one last time. She thought she would be needed to show Elphir’s wife, Sidhiel, the accounts and how to manage the palace. However it seemed politics had another idea.

Éomer was right, the people of the Mark needed a Queen and Éomer needed the help considering the toll of the first winter following the war. Charity and gifts of supplies could only last so long before they were overlooked once again, and with a number of skirmishes still occurring at the Mark’s border with the Dunelings; Eòmer was stretched thin. She’d expected to finally travel to Rohan after years of correspondence with her beloved, her small trinket box near to bursting with the number of letters tucked inside. Instead the box lay pathetically near-empty with only a few letters and was easily tucked into her riding bag.

So she had been packed off by her father with the promise he would see her again a month before the wedding. As far as she was concerned she hardly needed a great party to follow after her, they would first and foremost slow her down- but more importantly she doubted the Rohirrim would welcome a foreign princess determined to empty Meduseld of its native household for her own. Her father had eventually come to a compromise; a handful of cavalrymen and horses who would remain with her as a sign of goodwill to the Horse Lords, Istuìon who appeared to be surprisingly at peace to be leaving the comfort of the sea, and Rothos and Erchì who would accompany her until the wedding. She decided that she hardly needed a lady’s maid with the length of the journey, and she was certain that Eòwyn -who had returned to show her the ropes- would be more than able to provide her with one.

“After all Aunt,” Erchìrion said slyly over his soup “What dignified maid would want to take such an arduous trip north with so many brigands about? They would fear for their honour and their lives before they ever gave thought to caring for our sister.”

“Of course,” Amrothos’ mouth pulled into the mischievous smile Lothìriel knew bode danger “Our innocent sister would be much better protected with a small troop of knights.”

“Just so!” Imrahil toasted a goblet of wine to his sons and Lothìriel prepared herself for Ivrìniel’s inevitable barrage of words.

Irvrìniel was not particularly happy with that decision, and neither was old Saerwen, but with her promises to behave in a dignified manner they let the matter go.

It hardly seemed real to her, the way that the pale limestone cliffs had begun to rise steeply before softening to high plateaus of dried and burned grass. It was almost as if the war had clearly delineated the fields of slaughter, mounds of bodies that could not be returned home were buried upon them in hills of grey, sandy soil. She could almost laugh, had it not left a bitter taste in her mouth, that the bodies would do the soil more good than the fertilisers of the most-determined of Gondorian farmers. There was a reason why Gondor began to starve after the loss of the lands near Ithillien, and the barren, dust-like soil that clung to her riding boots were the proof of it. Nothing grew here, even the grass seemed pale and sickly though it was spread in great swathes across the landscape. The soil here was half sand and salt-kissed, it paid the price for the rocks it stood upon.

But still they rode on, her brothers averting their eyes as they passed battlefield after battlefield. At one point Amrothos had stopped his horse upon the road, staring blankly ahead at what she could only guess was Pelennor. Osgilliath lay beside them, utterly abandoned and falling to ruin.

“Brother?” Erchìrion had drawn up to him and Lothìriel did also, gesturing at their company to stop awhile.

“I can still smell it.” She could barely hear her brother, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Of her brothers only Amrothos had inherited their mothers eyes. Or so she was told. Where she and Elphir and Erchìrion possessed the Numenorean grey, he instead had the deep brown of Meldawen. Their warmth had belied the relentless sun of her trader ancestors’ Haradìm lands, but now they stared ahead, void and lifeless. “I can hear my men. Father rode with seven hundred men, and I lost my entire company within mere minutes, Erchì. I had never even seen enemy ships accomplish such a feat with such little energy.”

“Rothos, do you need a moment?” She reached over from her horse, grasping the deep blue of his cape.

“No. Keep going.” He choked out the words, though tears now fell freely upon his face. He nudged his horse forward and began to make his way further down the road. Lothìriel looked over to her elder brother, hand fiddling with his ruddy beard as he always did in thought.

“I’ll watch over him. He hasn’t awoken at night for a few moons now, though it still haunts him.”

Erchirion mentioned to her over the coming days that Amrothos refused to sleep, always staying awake to take shift after shift of watch.

“It’s how he’s always coped, you see.” He murmured, tossing a look over his shoulder at his youngest brother as they rode ever closer to the Rohirric border.

“Doesn’t quite make it the best way to cope, dearest Chì.”

“No, but I watched him for months on end after mother passed. He sat there by your cradle, refusing to leave until father eventually carried him over his shoulder, asleep and no longer able to watch over you.”

“What about you and Phìr?” Lothìriel’s hands uneasily wound around her reins, staring at the worn leather of her gloves.

“We were too busy trying to be grown men.” Was his reply. His mouth set into a hard line and his eyes filled with a pain renewed.

After that final camp and her brief moment in the meadow, it had taken a full day’s ride to finally reach Edoras. With every passing mile her heart began to race faster and faster within her chest, the genuine fear beginning to set in that all this land was to be hers to govern. Yes, she had Éomer , first and foremost she was here for Éomer . But she was to marry a man with far more power and responsibilities than even her father had dealt with. The soles of her boots skimmed the tall grass as they began to inch closer to the large mountain on the horizon as the sun began to sink behind it, her eyes could just make out emerald banners streaming from what seemed like every possible place a flag could be hung upon. This was a greeting unlike anything she had ever imagined- could have ever imagined.

With a steadying smile from both her brothers they began to fall into formation, Istuion quickly handing her the formal cloak she wore upon more official matters.

“You’ve all grown up, Highness.” Istuion smiled fondly, though his mouth seemed to tremble. “I never thought I’d ever have to stop chasing after you and your brothers’ troublesome antics.”

“No, I appear to be Rohan’s problem now.” She quipped, clapping his shoulder. He laughed at her imitation of a soldier’s comfort. “Thank you, Istuion. You always looked out for me.” Something in her heart felt as if it were being wrenched from her very chest, unable to quite believe that even Istuion who had put up with her since she could remember, was treating her as such.

She never thought she’d be treated above her brothers, _deferred to_ above her brothers. It didn’t feel right. In her mind her brothers were still those looming figures who had scooped her up after scraping a knee, pleading with Istuion to not tell their father. Promising to let her hit them if they promise not to tell father that she had gotten hurt.

“Don’t ever change yourself for others, it doesn’t suit you.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles before looking towards her brothers. “Are we ready to present her?”

“She’ll be fine, if she survived near drowning as a babe because she was too stupid to stay _near me_ -“

“Erchìrion that was entirely your fault!” Amrothos huffed at the memory. Lothìriel, though having been told the story dozens of times, still could not recall that incident of nearly drowning by the docks.

“Roth!” Lothìriel exclaimed, unsure of where her sudden outburst of annoyance came from. Her nerves began to feel as if they’d been set alight before suddenly being doused with icy waters, her hands were trembling upon the reigns as she tried to adjust herself.

She was not expecting a crowd like this, the people lined up upon either side of the road leading to the Golden Hall. Craning her neck against the glare of the sun she could just see the glint of armour above the precipice, and figures mounted upon horses. Part of her wanted to kick herself for her stupidity, but part of her hoped that her riding dress could pass as respectful enough wear for the noblemen.

In Éomer ’s succinct replies to her queries about Rohan’s nobility, she found herself laden with certainly something of a more relaxed court etiquette. But something in his words made it seem far more complex than even that of Gondor’s royal court. The Rohirrim barely wrote anything down, passing down tales from one generation to another. Her people would have considered it barbaric to not even record a single sentence. But here memories were long, and every child born to The Mark could recite the founding of their nation and their lineage well before they were old enough to be breeched.

And here she was, usurper and outsider, laying claim to a man that she was sure many before her tried.

Higher and higher they climbed, pulling at her reins as needed whenever they turned sharp hair-pin turns. Slowly, she noticed, the garb of the people lining the streets turned from homespun to much finer weaves and lavishly decorated. Her eyes were drawn to the hypnotising intertwining of knots and lines to form the intricate pattern banding each and every garment as distinctly Rohirric. She shifted a little in her saddle, feeling her cheeks heat up in the embarrassment of her state. How could anyone think her worthy? For once she briefly sympathised with her father’s love of ostentation, the very visible display of his status and power.

“Easy, sister.” Amrothos mumbled, riding beside her now as Erchirion flanked her left. “We’re here. All that matters is that he wants you.”

“It was always going to come to this.” Lothìriel admitted quietly, her mouth dry as she began to spot familiar faces lining the front of The Hall. “I just never expected to be Queen.”

“Better you than any of the others. Know your worth, Lothì.” Erchirion smiled before nodding and pulling his warhorse ahead in a trot.

They were here now, her hands almost numb as they gripped her reins. This was her reality, passing by as if she were a passive observer in her cage. She could hardly bring herself to raise her head from staring at the ground.

“Hail Éomer King! Hail sons and daughters of The Mark!” Erchirion exclaimed.

“And Hail to you, Erchirion son of Imrahìl!” Éomer called back.

Lothìriel found herself slowly looking up, something at the back of her mind sounded like her father. He had to told her to keep her head of curls high, to never let them see the illusion fall while she sat on that sandstone throne. Do not let them ever think they have the right to see that young girl she really was, do not ever let them think that ceremonial crown of Dol Amroth weighed more than a feather.

“Hail Éomer King!” There were very few times in her life where she had seen Amrothos be so serious. His face as he greeted her betrothed before dismounting was perhaps the most. “Hail Éowyn Wraithsbane, our cousin in marriage!” She noticed Éowyn’s arms wrapped protectively around her swollen belly. Lothìriel counted back in her mind before mild panic began to set in.

_Oh no_.

The baby was due within a matter of weeks.

“We bring forth Lothìriel, daughter of Imrahìl, Sovereign Princess of Dol Amroth during the War of the Ring.” Amrothos held out his hand, assisting her in dismounting. She took it, feeling his hands unusually cold and trembling.

“Roth?” He shook his head, nodding in the direction of the awaiting nobles. Éowyn stepped forward now, still tall and stately and towering over her- even more so now, glowing and radiant as she carried her child within her. She was resplendent in her customary white, though the band of Ithillien now graced her brow. Cousin Faramìr stood by her betrothed, and beside him an elf and dwarf she recognised from her brothers’ tales of battle.

“Hail Lothìriel, my sister in marriage.” Éowyn embraced her as best as she could, laughing as her stomach impeded her. “I present you to my brother, your betrothed.”

Lothìriel snuck a glance at Éomer , who seemed barely able to stand the length of the ceremony. His eyes were trained directly on her, though the restlessness of his hand at his hilt betrayed his agitation. She tried to bite back her smile, but failed, as he drew up to her now, bowing before her.

“Princess,”

“Your Majesty,” She curtsied deeply in return. She tried to take in his appearance as quickly as she could, memorising the shape of his brow and the shape of his smile. “I am honoured that you welcome me to your Halls.”

She watched him now as he turned to one of his Marshalls as they handed him a horn of mead, admiring the neatness of his beard and the way he had braided his hair back from his face. Lothìriel took the offered horn, placing her hands over his as he gently tipped the mead into her mouth. It was sweet and warm, savouring the brief moment of quiet before she pulled away.

“I know how well you love your home, I can only hope that you find it here.” Éomer was looking at her in that intense way she had found both terrifying and beautiful, a reverence she could never understand. She met his eyes for the barest second before he once again raised his façade before his subjects.

‘ _I have. With you.’_ She thought to herself as her brothers began to greet the surrounding nobles, listing her dowry and the numerous gifts her father brought as a sign of goodwill. Her eyes scanned the crowd, noting the polite acceptance of the gifts. Amrothos also added that her father withheld the need for Dol Amroth ladies-in-waiting, trusting the judgement of the Wraithsbane and Éomer King, though Istuion was to join her as an assistant within the household. Amrothos then introduced by name the small handful of Swan Knights that had accompanied them along their journey.

“And of course, the finest knight in the realm;” Eòmer raised a brow at this statement, unable to spy any particularly noteworthy Swan Knights among the party lined before him. Amrothos proceeded to scoop up a rather furry-looking item from a wicker basket, holding him outstretched in his arms. “Sir Ràvo Whiskers, Royal Mousecatcher of the Swan Knight Cavalry.”

“Oh no,” Lothìriel began to fear the response of the nearby nobles. Ràvo gave a perfunctory meow, fluffy tail swishing as her brother held him aloft beneath his front legs. It appeared that he had even been given a new doublet to wear for the occasion; the blue of his previous Dol Amroth station replaced with the deep green of the House of Eorl.

“The Realm of the Horse Lords cannot receive a new Queen to tend to its people without an equally as tenacious servant to tend to the stables. He has served Dol Amroth’s cavalry stables with distinction, and although we are certainly heartbroken to see his departure, he has trained his many sons well in his craft.” Éomer ’s mouth twitched for the briefest second before scooping the cat from her brother’s outstretched arms. Ràvo seemed comically small against the fore of his arm, pressed against his decorated breastplate and beginning to purr once again.

“I must thank you, your highness, for this… magnanimous gift. I am sure the hordes rodents are readying their defences.” Her betrothed could not have given a more deadpan tone and she was sure she was going to be horrendously undignified by laughing before all of Edoras.

“Just think of Irvriniel.” Erchì hissed, lips pursing together as he too attempted to hold back his laughter. Though it seemed Faramìr had failed in that regard, hastily coughing and looking sternly at a random stable boy who in turn shrugged. Éowyn wisely rolled her eyes at his antics.

“Well, My Lady,” He untwined an arm from the bundle of fur purring in his arms, she took it, squeezing just a little. “I understand you must be tired from your journey.”

“Were I awake I’d have quipped about how your presence refreshes me, but I do not think anyone here actually thinks that sort of thing is romantic.” She whispered just loud enough for both of them to hear. “Lead on, My Lord.” She spoke louder now, doing her best to look as gracious as she could rather than as exhausted as she felt. Together they stepped over the threshold of the Hall’s antechamber, the rest of their party following behind.

She was greeted with immense pillars of intricately carved wood, tapestries and banners along every inch of wall, and a large central hearth that gave welcome warmth against the bitterly cold winds. In a way she supposed she preferred this to Gondor, where everything seemed so distant and devoid of life. As ancient as her drowned ancestors. These halls seemed to breathe, creaking faintly whenever a particularly harsh gust of wind hit the sides of the great building.

“Love, business calls and I’ll see you in the morning.” Éomer placed a kiss to her forehead, lingering perhaps too long for polite society. “Éowyn and Marshall Elfhelm of the East-Mark shall attend to you.”

“My apologies, I am Erkenbrand, Marshall of the West-Mark” A tall man by Éomer ’s right bowed deeply, doffing his helmet to reveal a mass of ruddy hair. “There has been an unforeseen development. I hope to see this matter closed so that you two may resume your courtship.”

“I understand. Please, do not allow my arrival to get in your way. My party and I are more than ready to retire for the rest of today.”

She was shepherded into a side-corridor by Éowyn, the latter stating that it was probably for the best if she retire tonight and face the new day and new country with a fresh mind. Her brothers followed Faramìr and greeted the elf and dwarf with familiar cheer before entering the spacious dining halls.

“I truly am happy to see you once again!” Éowyn’s hug was fiercer now, her hands coming to the side of Lothìriel’s face as she neatened about the fallen strands of hair. “You must be tired,”

“Yes,” She freely admitted, her body feeling as if she were being dragged beneath unescapably powerful waves, “I don’t even think I can bear to eat.”

“Whatever you wish, Éomer shall see you when he is finished and I’m sure you’ll appreciate getting my brother to yourself.” She added with a wink as they eventually reached a series of grand doors.

The room was incredibly spacious, heavy emerald curtains were drawn over expansive glass windows. The tapestries here seemed more intimate than that of the tapestries depicting lore within the main hall, their weave for comfort and beauty rather than majesty. Various pieces of padded furniture were scattered about the room and free for her to rearrange as she pleased.

“We were informed that you wished to have space for your books,” Elfhelm drew her attention to a series of empty bookshelves. Lothìriel nodded, barely able to take anything in and just wishing to sleep it all off. Éowyn and Elfhelm pointed out several more key objects, a washroom for her private use, a formal sitting room for the receiving of guests, and a nursery.

“And this, your highness, is your chamber that you share with your betrothed.” Elfhelm pushed open a heavy set of carved doors, decorated with the emblem she had become familiar with.

She stopped in her footsteps, unsure if she heard correctly. “I beg your fucking pardon?” This was the last thing she had expected. Least of all in a royal courtship.

“It’s not too late to back out!” Eòwyn rubbed her stomach a little, trying to ease the kicking, “I was just told that you wished to participate in the traditions of the Mark.”

“You mistake me, I was unaware that this sort of ritual was considered…”

“Proper?” Eòwyn hazarded a guess at what she was trying to put into words. “I must admit you seem a lot less enthused than my Lord Husband suggested you would be. I believe his words were somewhere along the line that you would revel in this sort of impropriety by Gondorian standards.”

“Please don’t take offence,” Lothìriel threw over her shoulder to Elfhelm. “I am well aware of these courtship traditions for those who are not nobility, but I was unaware that this was also followed by The Crown.”

“We must admit, it has not been followed as such in a while. Of course your predecessor married Theoden King while First Marshall, and Thengel King before him married Morwen Steelsheen while in exile.” Éowyn shot Marshall Elfhelm a look that suggested he wasn’t being particularly helpful

“Lothìriel, we are a horsing nation, yes?”

“Yes…” Éowyn gave a small grimace in response.

“You see, it is considered of utmost importance that a bride and more importantly a future queen is fertile.” She began gently and Lothìriel nodded at the logic, though different it was of course practical. “Traditionally the wedding was held once the bride was confirmed to be with child.”

“I’m _sorry_?!” She felt herself choke on the spittle in her throat, wheezing for the cool winter air that was still managing to seep through the shuttered windows.

“My lady, we do not expect you to be with child, though I am sure it would be welcome if you should choose to be.” Elfhelm stared at his shoes, though his tone was certainly reassuring. “I’m sure his majesty has explained that we do things very differently here.”

“Y-yes, he has. Thank you both, truly.” Lothìriel smoothed down her skirts, taking a determined look about the room that was to be hers and her betrothed’s. “I think I should like to retire. I will hopefully be awake at a reasonable time tomorrow.”

“There is no rush, highness.” Elfhelm raised his head, looking at her in earnest. “We would not begrudge you your rest.”

“I hate idleness, Marshall.” Lothìriel smiled ruefully. “I shall see you both in the morning.”

They both bowed and wished her a peaceful rest. Somehow she found the energy to stoke up the fire a little more and remove her many layers of riding gear. Her body sore from the ride and her mind tired from the excitement, she quickly fell into a deep sleep.

The waves crashed around her body, dressed in that old chemise as she had always done, her arms struggled to dive deeper and deeper into the dark depths of the sea. Her brothers’ harried voices screamed for her from the shore. Her eyes strained against the deep shadows of the rock beds, looking for the tell-tale signs of where small sharks may be feeding upon the shells of pearl-bearing oysters. Her mind quietly echoed with the memory of tales Elphìr told of the pearl divers, young maids who wished to eschew husbands and hunt for the bounties of the sea. They would dive at dawn every morning beyond the safe haven of the docks, their hair unbound and floating upon the surface as they swam back up, clutching woven baskets filled with briny shells. They would spend the day shucking the oysters open and searching for pearls, sorting them into baskets and the meat given to the pie-makers for their baked goods. They sang of mermaids and lost loves, and somewhere a child with her hair danced about in rhythm to the pounding of their fists against wood.

The dream shifted yet again to a young woman atop a cliff, the waters climbing higher and higher, turning evermore grey and dark and all-consuming as with abject horror she saw a wave that could have engulfed the very heavens themselves. Her grey eyes coursed with anger and fury before closing them for the longest, the stillest of moments. She opened them once again, calmness now flowing through her as she welcomed her doom. The woman removed her husband’s ring, the vestiges of his power from her brow and the golden collar about her neck. She put out of her mind the name he had given her- tainted her with. She now bore her true name before the Valar. Her heavy ceremonial cloak fell to the sodden ground, and as she stepped forth to greet the wall of foaming waves she stepped out of the slippers upon her feet. The woman called to the Valar and they responded in whispers through the sleek mass of raven hair, whipping them about her tear-stained cheek. She was forbidden to speak here, only the King may utter prayers here, but she was the True Queen and so she gave her first and last prayer as the last Queen of Numenor. They promised to cleanse her of his stench, to heal the burns upon her soul, to set her free so that she may exist in peace. Tar-Mìriel took a final gulp of frigid air, feeling it burn through her lungs as the pleas and screams of her people below rang in the air. It was closer now. Droplets fell against her ever colder and colder skin.

Her lungs filled with salt and she was floating. Weightless. Darkness. She knew nothing but comfort and the sight of her father’s smile.

Lothìriel awoke to the sound of wind battering against the wooden shutters of the room, the embers barely burning. Her nose once filled with the scent of pines and the sea now smelled the warmth of hewn wood and perfumed furs, filling her with calm. Her eyes followed her hand, noting the larger one wrapped around it, finding the form of her betrothed sitting upon the floor. Éomer was leaned against the edge of his fur-covered bed an arm outstretched and holding her hand while the other lay limp against his side. He appeared to have stripped off his armour, leaving a simple shirt and his breeches beneath. His boots had been neatly placed beside the arm chair alongside what looked like his garments for the next day.

He looked so… peaceful seemed like the most overused phrase in her mind. Soft was perhaps a better word. Soft, non-threatening, a kitten rather than the lion he was reputed to be upon the battlefield. Lothìriel mused that her betrothed would most likely resent her choice of descriptors for his current state. But he would definitely be sore in the morning should he continue to sit at such an awkward angle, despite his inevitable protests contrary.

“Melleth nin?” Lothìriel shuffled under the heavy furs, tucking an errant strand of golden hair behind his ear. Éomer blearily opened an eye, his free hand rubbing at them as he tried to look at her. “What on Arda is this?”

“I wasn’t sure if… I didn’t want to presume.” He answered, doing his best to stifle a yawn. “I apologise, I hadn’t realised they would immediately-”

“Ask for an heir? Come on, it isn’t going to make itself.” Lothìriel teased, trying to heave him up upon the bed. She swore Éomer nearly slid to the floor at her jest, his hand briefly releasing her own before grasping once again. “I jest, I promise.”

“It better be a jest love, I don’t think I can handle all this.” He murmured, peeling away the heavy furs and settling in beside her. “The cat’s already taken my cape.” Lothìriel glanced over by the fireplace and his winter cape was indeed occupied by Ràvo Whiskers.

“He’s just overly fond of you.” Lothìriel replied as she lifted his arm and tucked herself beside him. She rested her head upon the warmth of his chest. Closing her eyes she could feel constant beat of his heart and the slow rise of breath. It was already beginning to lull her back to heady sleep.

“Are you sure? I understand if you do not wish to participate in these customs.”

“No, I’ve lived long enough without you. And you make a delightful bed warmer.” She added, glancing up through her lashes. And somehow, despite the heavy beating of her heart, she eventually fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Amrothos and Erchirion were bribing the hell out of Ràvo to keep his presence a surprise from Lothìriel. His seven kittens are all grown up with kittens of their own and he’s decided that a change in scenery (and a promotion) would be what he needs at this stage of his career. He was informed by Amrothos that the pay would be better in Rohan. With his considerable experience as Head Mousecatcher, he’s got an incredibly competitive CV by Rohirric standards.
> 
> Given that Tolkein was inspired by Old-English tradition for Rohan, I'm going off that but adding some extra details mostly because I don't think fantasy is fun if we're playing in by textbook rules. Lmao i may be in over my head trying to plan out the structure of the Rohirric court and making up some nobility but uh guess I'm gonna have to make a list of Rohirric names and roll some d20s.
> 
> Anyway let me know what you think and hopefully I get the next chapter up at some point this semester lmao.


	3. Noon Idyll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sibling bickering, narrowly avoiding a bloodbath, wedding planning, Eomer wants to be marked down as both scared and horny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOI I AM SO SORRY AT THE DELAY ZOOM UNIVERSITY JUST WENT WHAT IF WE GAVE YOU MORE ASSIGNMENTS???? But like 6k words????? Its a v long one.
> 
> It’s like I blink and then I have to keep editing my notes draft for each chapter in advance because yikes at everything happening. I hope everyone is staying safe, and for anyone protesting I especially hope you all are too. But let’s keep demanding change, regardless of what country we’re in because systematic racism is inherent within a lot of our cultures. I’m also sorry that this took a while, but with the plague and uni a lot of things dragged on but I was working on this and the other chapters as I went along. Also lmao why is there so much angst coming up, I didn’t intend for this to be angsty but welp.

It had occurred to Lothìriel, within minutes of awakening, that she was quite unable to move. And it was warm. Far too warm. Her body pinned between the dip of the bed and half a Rohirric King upon her side. She bit back the urge to laugh, teeth digging into her lips, watching as Eomer’s deep breath caused a stray lock of hair about his face to flutter gently.

Her hand seemed to move of its own accord, fingertips gently running the length of his nose and the crest of his cheekbone. Emboldened at the warm of his skin, she began to gently run the back of her fingers along his jawline, revelling in the scratch of his beard. After a few moments she finally manage to wiggle out of his grasp, her feet dangling over the edge of the bed. She frowned, realising that she could not touch the floor. With a hop she jumped off the bed, pulling the furs back over Eomer’s sleeping form, and began to explore the room.

The tapestries here were far richer than she could have ever imagined. Eowyn had warned her, but they were _nothing_ compared to the sight of woven forest hues. And the sheer volume of them, it felt like hardly an inch of the wooden panels were visible behind the tapestries. Every spare inch of wall seemed to tell a tale, horses of bay and roan and greys galloping across a golden sea of grass. A couple of different sets of armour hung upon wooden forms, and a cape was

Pushing open the large shutters, her eyes began to take notice of the pale white beginning to dust the grey-browns of the town below her, wisps of smoke beginning to escape from large chimneys and hearths. Few people were awake, some women washing laundry in the streets, others beginning to set up the day’s wares. She mentally took note of the industries, trying to wrack her brain for distant memories of lessons about Rohirric trades. Beyond the sloping mound of the town, the Misty Mountains made a formidable image upon the flat landscape, the skies overhead already dark and stormy- the signs of an impending blizzard. Her brothers once laughed at her for piling blankets atop her bed in the cooler months at Dol Amroth, but here it felt as if the iciness had pierced her soul. This was nothing like the cold shock of the sea, one that burned at first but became as familiar as breathing over time.

Before she could pull away, Lothìriel felt the warmth of an arm begin to wind around her waist, a hand holding her hip firm and the sturdiness of a chest pressed against her back.

“I’m afraid we have no sea for you to attempt to drown me in.” A part within her, one she was becoming steadily more and more familiar with, revelled in the deep huskiness of her betrothed’s voice. “You’re cold, lass.”

“How very astute.” She smiled, turning to face him. She held back a laugh at the sight of his tangled hair and the mark of his pillow upon his cheek. “You’re very warm.” She felt like an idiot at how that sounded.

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Aye, so I’ve been told. I am sorry I did not warn you soon enough about,” he briefly let go of her to gesture around his chambers, “this.”

She shook her head, pulling her arms around his waist tighter. She decided she very much liked it. “I suppose the fault is partly mine for never having paid attention to the marriage customs of other nations.” Lothiriel headed over to the chest placed by the bed the night before, digging through for an appropriately warm dress. It seemed she was ill-prepared for the cold, with only two or three perhaps suited to this weather. “What do you do in the mornings?”

“Besides forcing the cat off my cloak?” Eomer gestured to a still-sleeping Ravo upon the mass of wool. “Eat, I suppose. Enjoy whatever I can of the day before duties begin.”

“What of when you were with the eored?” She fumbled with the lacing of her boots, looking up at him with keen interest. “Surely there was something more interesting?”

“Apart from orcs?” She froze in place for a moment, praying to whoever would listen that she hadn’t overstepped a line. Lothìriel relaxed as she noted the smirk upon his face, eyes glistening with humour, “No, mostly just did my duties. Though I did bathe in the rivers.”

“Is that meant to imply that I have a chance of drowning you?”

“Love, I hardly think you need to ride out to the river.” He nodded in the direction of a smaller chamber off to the side she had yet to explore. “The bath would certainly be more comfortable.”

Her mind processed that last sentence for a moment, mouth agape she only _just_ realised what had been relayed to her the night before. They really _were_ giving her free reign of her betrothed. This really wasn’t what she was expecting at all. At best she supposed she would have some time to see him in between his duties and her own lessons.

But this?

“My love?” Her voice felt constricted in her throat, hands grasping at the edge of the polished stool she sat upon. “I, uh…”

She watched her betrothed make his way before her, kneeling down and pressing their foreheads together. Pain flickered in her breast, _aching_ at the sheer tenderness of it all. She idly registered the now-familiar callouses of hands against the skin of her cheeks, cradling her head between them.

“Was this too much?” She met his concerned gaze, shaking her head. “You can tell me, I won’t judge.”

“I just… it’s nothing,”

“ _Lothìriel_.”

“It’s not that I don’t _enjoy_ , I suppose, getting to know you better in this sense,” She took a deep breath and Eomer nodded for her to continue, “I was simply never raised to expect this from a betrothal. Gondorian courtships are all chaperones and so much as looking at a boy being forbidden.”

“Gondorian maidens must be blind then, if they cannot look at a man.”

“Oh no, you just admire them through their reflection in the glass. Much easier.” She hesitated a moment before leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. For the briefest second she felt his breath against her skin pause before he returned it, tilting her jaw with his hands as she deepened the kiss. She could willingly spend hours here, warmth flowing through her body as her hands found themselves tangling in his hair. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Eomer pressed one more kiss to her cheek before taking both her hands, pulling her up to face him and wrapping his arms about her waist. “But what bothers you?”

“ _Should_ I be more… physical?” She struggled to find the right word, her eyeline barely leaving the embroidered collar of his tunic. “I don’t wish to offend your people’s customs or hurt you in any way.”

Cupping her cheek, he tilted her chin up to look at him, understanding clear in his eyes. “Perhaps I do admit to cradle-snatching,” Lothìriel snorted and Eomer bit back an exasperated sigh, “Despite your Gondorrian notion of we Rohirrim being brutes-”

“I don’t _think_ that,”

“I know. But I will only ever return what you wish to give.” She nodded, her heart gently releasing itself from that constricting feeling at the sight of his smile. How could anyone have ever thought Eomer was a stoic man? Well, if she was being honest, his softness was her privilege. “You need only say. Though I apologise if I offend, we are brought up to be…” His brows furrowed, trying to find the right word.

“Tactile?” She offered, he gave a small nod. “I’m afraid all we have are words and truly dull songs. So if I wish to kiss you?”

“I would be a fool to refuse, love.”

“If I told you I wanted to start working on all fifteen children I am intent on having?” She laughed at the quick expression of sheer panic that passed before his face. “I jest, but thank you.” She stood upon her toes, lowering his face to press a small hiss upon his cheek. “I’ll figure this out as I go along, I suppose.”

“Of course,” With a final kiss upon her lips, he left her embrace, scooping up the now mewling cat upon his cloak. Lothìriel quickly shook the cloak free from any strands of coppery hairs before placing his cloak upon his shoulders. With a quick fumbling of ties she hooked her arm about the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her to the great hall.

* * *

Upon awakening from her black sleep in the Halls of Healing, Eowyn had been made aware of the immediate political situation. Partly out of prudence, she was after all, second-in-line to the Riddermark. But also due to her quiet conversations with her future husband, shy as he was at times, he never seemed to stop worrying about a great many things. At the time of their talk a young cousin of his had been at the forefront of his mind. She’d only come of age by Rohirric standards a year or two ago, Faramìr had told her, though by Gondor it was a year or so off.

“Does she sleep anymore? She need not help me, and yet she remains.” His head had rested upon her shoulder as they both continued their vigil at the east-ward horizon. “I feel I failed my brother. He always doted on her, said that at least one of us should be let to run wild.”

“I like the sound of her.” She had said at the time.

And in truth she was right. Lothìriel had made herself known to Eowyn after a couple of days, profusely apologising for not having introduced herself earlier.

“Things are rather fraught between Harad and Dol Amroth at the moment, though they've stopped a vast majority of their incursions, but with the militant Umbar Corsair that allied themselves with Mordor-” She was harried and the shadows beneath her eyes were all too-familiar to Eowyn. She noted that Lothìriel was dressed in the Gondorian style of mourning, in a gown of inky black. An ancient band that seemed far too heavy for her brow was decorated with the dual symbols of Gondor and the principality of Dol Amroth, holding a sheer silken veil over her face and hair. _That_ was why Faramìr had been so worried for her, she was Sovereign Princess.

“Highness, please,” Eowyn, accustomed to the freely-given touches of Rohan, watched as the young woman flinched at the feeling of her hand resting upon her tense shoulders. “Please, let us not talk of business. You are in a place of rest and should be free to rest as the rest of us.”

Eowyn wasn’t sure at what point the thought of Lothìriel as a potential sister-in-law came about, but it came all the same. Indeed, it had been her husband who had bought it up first. In the end it hadn’t taken much effort on their part at all, Eomer seemed absolutely besotted with her and the poor girl was both confused and elated at falling in love with him too.

“Faramìr, can you lend us money?” Eowyn was shook out of her reverie at the sight of her favourite Dol Amroth cousin.

Her husband immediately reached for the small book he kept his accounts in, thumbing through to find a page on expenditure. “How much do you need Amrothos?”

“Well, we were just informed here by the very amiable Marshall Erkenbrand that flowers at this time of year are an astronomical cost.” Erkenbrand raised his tankard at the sound of his name before resuming conversation with Erchirion. “I should have foreseen this, my sincerest apologies cousin, I had believed that flowers were the easiest undertaking in this planning. I will not fail you once we get to robes-”

“Amrothos, what exactly _are_ you planning?” Eowyn felt the impending sense of dread well in her stomach. It may have also been the babe. It was touch and go there.

“I was hoping for some exotic blooms from all over the continent. I know that the roses of Ithillien are _particularly_ fragrant-”

Eowyn rubbed her temple, unsure of how she was even doing this at this time of morning. “Amrothos, it’s nearly winter,” she said in a deadpan voice, unsure of _where_ Amrothos even got his harebrained ideas from. “I hardly think our gardeners have had time to place them within the hothouse.”

“Yes, but there is nothing wrong with being optimistic in the face of failure, dearest Cousin Wraithsbane!” She decided that his grin was far too sunny for this time of morning. Fara was right, the man _was_ a walking puppy.

“We shall see what alternatives can be made,” Faramìr slid his account book back into a fold of his robes. “Wife?”

“Yes?” She stopped her idle-minded rubbing of her belly, turning to face her husband.

Faramìr paused for a moment, staring deeply into his mug of hot malt and chocolate milk before continuing, “What ales have been made available? For the wedding, of course.”

“Well, I believe my brother and your cousin intend to sample them and see which is to their taste. It seems a little unnecessary-” She began to answer before feeling a calloused hand clap upon her shoulder, “Erchìrion, is there anything you wish to say?” She sighed.

“My dearest cousin. I only wish to say that my brother and I should be made party to that session, in your stead of course.” He winked. Eowyn held back the urge to roll her eyes at the auburn-haired man’s antics. “After all, we cannot have sub-standard drink at our beloved sister’s day of all days.”

Looking down at her swollen belly, hoping to _Bema_ or to anyone who would listen, that her babe would hustle along with their arrival already. Fine ales were something she had most certainly come to miss. Eventually the sound of distant murmurs drew closer as she noticed her bleary-eyed brother and his exhausted betrothed enter the halls, a cat held fast in his arms.

“...You really are _far_ too warm.” She yawned, greeting her brothers before carrying on her conversation.

“Love, you were the one who kept tossing the blankets on and off the bloody bed.” Eomer sighed into his mug.

She apologised, taking a bite of some toast handed her. For a moment Eowyn could have sworn that Lothìriel seemed taken aback at the pile of food upon her plate, before hastily plastering a pleasant smile upon her face. “I am sure we will figure out this debacle with my inability to maintain my own body heat.”

“Aye, hopefully soon.”

“Aren’t you two meant to be basking in the afterglow of a night of debauchery, or something to that extent?” Eowyn supressed a sigh at Amrothos, now beginning to saunter over to where the pair had sat. She supposed that it was her turn to save her poor brother and decided to mark a course of interception before any barbs could be passed between the siblings. With deliberate steps across the polished floors of the hall she not-so-gently bumped Amrothos out of the way, murmuring something about precedence as a woman heavy with child.

* * *

Eomer greeted his sister good morning as she made her way towards them, though he was slowly beginning to regret agreeing to discussions as their breakfasts were cleared away. He had hoped at the very least that there would be an opportunity to show his betrothed about the Halls. And, no matter how ill-mannered his sister painted him to be, he knew how to recognise a courtesy in need of repaying. After all, had Lothìriel not shown him about the palace and the city of Dol Amroth?

At the very least, he mused, his betrothed had silently moved her hand into his, holding onto it as he watched her stare _very_ intently at one tree just visible beyond the window. He was sure that there were whole sieges that lasted for less than these idle discussions of fripperies had.

He couldn’t believe he agreed a whole day off from duties for this.

Perhaps this was some polite Gondorian form of punishment? Eowyn seemed far too amused by the entire situation. Well, he supposed some things never changed. He swore his heart had momentarily stopped beating at the sight of the amount of gold available to pay for this one wedding.

“After all, between the money we have been putting aside from our soldier’s pay, the money Lothì invested after receiving her inheritances, and the money cousin Boromìr left her,” Erchìrion recounted quickly on his fingers, “Oh, and cousin Fara set aside a sum as gift.”

“Now, I briefly sketched some ideas for the decorations and there are some samples of fabrics for both draping and any participants within the ceremony itself.” He felt himself choke on his tea as Amrothos began to unfurl a large scroll of parchment, intricate sketches filling up almost every inch of the sheet. Lothìriel’s hand patted small circles upon his back and he pressed a small kiss to her temple in thanks. He decided he liked the sudden flush of colour that came to her cheeks. “I was informed that we are to use this Hall as is tradition. And I could not have chosen a more ideal spot, however,”

“ _Yes_?” Eomer sighed, attempted to recount the list of matters that had yet to be solved. Elfhelm briefly mentioned something to do with the bride price alongside matters of garb and settlements in the (hopefully unlikely) scenario that he were to perish within the near future.

“We have to do something about the tapestries,” Amrothos gestured around the room.

“Is there something wrong?” Elfhelm bristled a little, folding his arms and levelling a glare at the young prince. Erkenbrand too shifted within his seat. “I was unaware these tapestries were… lacking for a princess of Gondor.”

Amrothos’ mouth lay comically agape, eyes darting between the individuals who sat at the table. It would have been funny had it not been for the tense air in the room. “No, they are grand and a testament to your people’s skills. But surely there are more… romantic tapestries? I hardly think a battle is something suited for a wedding.”

“They are a reminder as to what line your sister shall marry into,” Erkenbrand finally spoke, raising a pale brow. “Though I believe there are… more tasteful tapestries available.”

“Excellent!” Amrothos clapped his hands before pulling out yet another godsforesaken scroll. “No decapitations, that was the main idea. Father frequently says they are bad for digestion. Now, the dowry-”

Eowyn stood from her seat and all quickly looked towards her. Was it the babe? Eomer sincerely hoped it wasn’t the babe. “I thought there was to be no speak of a dowry. The House of Eorl is more than capable of taking care of their own and we would not ask Dol Amroth to part with anything more for a _brýdgifu_. If I am not mistaken, both Marshalls are here to discuss the bride price?”

Elfhelm and Erkenbrand stood once more, fetching halved wooden sticks with some etchings and a small chest resting by the hearth. Elfhelm glanced nervously at him and Eomer nodded, though he had the distinct feeling it did little to reassure the man. “We, your Marshalls, have settled the _brýdcéap as the lands of Lossanarch that are part of your inheritance,_ _sire_ _. We believe this to be most convenient as, should you perish much later on, will situate her highness nearby her blood.”_

 _“We have also,” Erkenbrand quickly shuffled through the debt sticks in his hands, “Considered a_ _morgengifu equivalent to…” He felt Lothìriel stiffen at the large sum offered. He swore she mentioned something under her breath about the value of particular trade goods._

_“And of course, additional sums and lands within The Mark for any children that should be left. Of course, this is if you happen to fall within the near future,” Erkenbrand threw a particularly heated glare at him, “Due to your stubbornness. Though, of course, this is alongside any regency period her highness will undertake if your heir is not yet of age. Is this agreeable?”_

Eomer looked about expectantly around the room, noting the stormy expression about both his future good-brother’s faces. He briefly met Faramìr’s worried gaze before Erchìrion broke the heavy silence.

“Absolutely not.”

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, you expect us to agree to these terms?” He’d never so much as heard Amrothos sound irritated, let alone offended. Eomer frowned, unsure of just _how_ his men could have caused offence. “You barely knew our sister, didn’t even sing beneath her window nor offer us gifts, and now you _refuse_ a dowry and expect us to be paid?” Beside him Elfhelm stood, hand ready by his sword. Erchìrion stood too, face as hard as flint as he reached for the dagger resting upon the table. “I suppose the next thing I shall be hearing is that the hall be stripped bare and-”

“Enough! Both of you.” Lothìriel beside him shouted, her hand grasping his hand harder now. He turned to look down upon her, her face contorted in heat and anger before passing into calm serenity once again. Like one of Eowyn’s favourite dolls as a child. “Amrothos you are being an embarrassment to not only our people, but to _me_.”

“Your betrothed, as _kind_ as he is, has not even acknowledged any of our customs.” Amrothos began to explain, though he looked appropriately remorseful at the reprimand. “You are my sister and I care not whether you are marrying the King of Rohan or a stable boy. You are half of this marriage and I demand you be paid equal respect.”

“Amrothos, I don’t _care_ about the decorations or the flowers or even the cake!” Eomer watched as Lothìriel lifted their clasped hands and placed it upon the table before them. “I will marry Eomer, and if you so much as _hinder_ me, I swear to Ulmo I’ll elope.” He felt his heart begin to beat faster at the threat sister levelled against brother. Though he knew the threats passed between himself and his own sister often held no weight, he simply had no idea just how determined the children of Dol Amroth could be.

“You wouldn’t” He squinted at his sister.

“I would.” Lothìriel matching his tone. “Or worse, I’ll be too large with child for you to plan a wedding soon enough.”

“You _definitely_ wouldn’t.” He scoffed.

“I _most certainly_ would.” She returned back. Eomer wasn’t sure whether the determination in her voice, the utter _surety_ of it, was something that terrified him or aroused him.

At that last thought he quickly realised things were getting out of hand, clearing his throat he nodded at Faramìr, the only other sane person at this table. “Please, there is no need for a family bloodbath at this table.” Faramìr placated. “As it stands, cousin, you cannot elope. Though I am sure the thought amuses us all. However, Amrothos, Lothìriel explicitly stated that she wished to follow Rohirric marriage custom as Eowyn had followed Gondorian custom. But perhaps we can negotiate upon the Mark accepting a dowry as I doubt the people of Gondor will take well to an outright refusal.”

“It will wound the pride of The Mark’s people, to think they are not sufficient for a new Queen.” Elfhelm finally conceded. “They already feel beholden to the many supplies and crops that were given in good-will after the war.”

“Then you must understand we cannot, at the risk of displeasing our forefathers, allow our sister to marry without providing.” Erchìrion responded, his hand resting upon his brother’s still tense shoulder.

“Well,” Eomer kept his face as still as possible, it would bode ill to betray the sincere gratitude he felt at his sister’s interruption. “The drapers and tailors have arrived in order to fit you for new clothes, Lothìriel. Perhaps we should attend that. Brother, there are a selection of ales that require your attention.”

He could have screamed for joy.

* * *

Lothìriel, half-asleep and too busy trying to figure out how best to figure out the current issue with her apparent monetary worth, quietly suffered as her brothers had suggested dress after dress. There were many beautiful ones, she had to admit, though this particularly… frothy was the only word for it- dress that Amrothos had thrust into her arms was less than ideal. She was sure she had a doll that once looked like this, all porcelain and yards of gathered silk. That may have been the doll that did not survive the several-foot drop at the top of the watch tower…

Well, one last dress.

With the help of one of the handmaidens now assigned to her (Gertha, she recalled her name was, a shieldmaiden in the flesh at her towering height and pale hair), she slipped on the silken gown of pale silver.

She stopped, staring into the glass placed before her. The cut was wrong, there were places it could have sat better or her shoulders exposed or…

She already _had_ that gown. The one she had sworn she would only wear once. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure if her brothers’ stitches would have lasted beyond that single evening.

Well, her mind was made now. Removing it from her body she quickly gestured for Gertha to fetch her woollen gown before stepping before the awaiting crowd. Would they hate her for this? It felt cruel not to, at the very least, choose a gown or even a bolt of fabric she preferred. Her mind turned, recalling the amount of gold available to her. Well, she had some form of a plan, hopefully it wouldn’t be seen as _too_ presumptuous.

The many seamstresses and drapers looked expectantly at her now. Part of her tried not to be irritated at Eowyn for commanding their attention now, and the sheer number of eyes upon her made her skin itch.

“I am enchanted by all these wares, and they speak highly of the many gifts of the people of The Mark. I know as Queen I will be deeply proud of your work and I know I will be wearing many of them. I hope that with this joining of houses, we will be able to rebuild trade networks between not only Dol Amroth, but with our northern neighbours at Dale and Erebor.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to continue those small, polite smiles to them all. “However, I wish to honour the hand my brothers have had in my upbringing. I had no mother and it came to them that they make my coming of age dress, as is Dol Amroth tradition. It would be cruel to spend such a large amount of coin upon a single dress when so many are starving and the nation needing to be rebuilt.”

Was it cruel to lie? _Was_ it a lie? Perhaps partially, after all as part of her dowry she had bought many bolts of cloth that could be used at no cost at all. But there was something else, something that tasted like pride and fear and desperation at the back of her tongue.

For the first time this whole time it had finally sunk in. The finality of it all.

All her life she’d chased after her brothers, begging them to let her join her games until one relented and handed her a wooden sword.

And she wouldn’t have them anymore. No Erchì to drag her to arithmetic, no Amrothos to run around the markets with. Elphìr wouldn’t be there to lecture her for yet another transgression against common decency before playing her a little song on his lute.

Her father she’d made her peace with, but _this_?

“If you are not disagreeable, I would be more than happy to purchase personal gowns, both for present use and future. But the dress itself has already been chosen.”

Making one last round of eye contact with each seamstress, she gave a deep curtsey and proceeded to walk around the room, politely selecting garments from each one. A small voice in the back of her mind longed for the sight of pale silks, however at the sight of deep velvets she resisted all urges to purchase a dress in every colour. She did her best to keep track of the many names presented before her, asking polite questions about their seasonal fabrics and the impact upon their supplies. Lothìriel also quickly remembered a tidbit about Dale and their current lack of wool. Hopefully Dale would send their ambassador along soon, she had missed their forthright manner of conversation.

Though it may not have been _exactly_ what they had intended, her shrewd observation of the many candidates gave her some hope that they weren’t too sore about missing out on her wedding dress. If anything, a couple seemed relieved. She did, however, stop at one artisan whom she had been informed was a specialist in detail work and decoration. She was trained, the guild mistress informed her, by her late father before he perished in the war. Lothìriel nodded, an idea forming in her mind.

“My lady,” The girl seemed young, far too young, all sloe eyes and flaxen curls. “Is there something you require?”

“What is your name?” Lothìriel asked, idly running her hands over the samples of needlework presented to her by the guild mistress.

The girl straightened up, tucking hair behind her ears. She determinedly met her gaze and answered back, “Sigerun, my lady.”

Lothiriel smiled and gestured for the trunk that her brothers bought into the room, having it be placed before her. Lothìriel, picking up her skirts, knelt down and began to look for the bolt of fabric she had dismissed earlier that afternoon.

“Have you ever worked with Harad silk?” Lothìriel began to unfold the bolt, allowing the girl to run the translucent fabric through her fingers. At the shake of her head, she handed her the bolt. “This was gifted to me by Ghasan, the leader of the nomadic Dadu peoples of Harad. It was woven by his wife and a gift of peace between our peoples.”

Many of the seamstresses and merchants moved closer now, Lothìriel giving a nod of ascension to those who silently asked to examine the fabric.

Sigerun cleared her throat, “It is very fine, highness. Is there anything you had in mind?”

“No, nothing at all. Only that it respect my father’s house. I trust that your skills and the skills of your fellow guild-artisans will speak highly for the Mark.”

With a final deep curtsey to all present she nodded at Eowyn, the taller woman leading her through the room and into the corridors beyond.

“Forgive me, but I am afraid I feel tired. Will you be able to return to your rooms? The servants will not hesitate to direct you, it is of no shame.” Lothìriel took in her good-sister’s flushed face, the small line between her brows indicating she was hiding the true pain she felt. It seemed she and Eomer possessed that same habit.

“No, I think I remember from here. Please, don’t exert yourself. I’ll doubtless receive one of Fara’s famous lectures about imposing on others.” She tried to reassure Eowyn. At the hint of a dismissal she gave a small sigh of relief.

“Hopefully, Lothìriel, I get to hear one of those famous lectures soon.”

“Oh we can only hope. Just don’t do it over the rugs Erchìrion selected for the wedding.” At that, Eowyn laughed and began to make her way towards, what she assumed, were her chambers.

Lothìriel turned a corner, the tapestries seeming familiar to her. Honestly, she couldn’t believe that she was navigating purely by tapestries. But, they appeared to be guiding her in the right direction to the room she had shared with her betrothed. At the sight of Amrothos in his ridiculous fur-trimmed coat Lothìriel paused in her steps. Surely he’d outgrown his childhood games of following her into her own room, and there was absolutely no hope of bypassing him without being noticed.

“Sister!” Amrothos called after her, she walked faster, her skirts held in tight fists. She quietly cursed every Valar under her breath for gifting her brother with legs as unnaturally long as his. “How did it go?”

“No.” She muttered back, doing her best to ignore the numerous traits her wedding dress must possess by his reckoning.

“And after all, you are _quite_ short sister dearest. The dress must balance that out-”

“Amrothos!” Lothìriel snapped, feeling like the child she once was without resorting to stamping a silken-clad foot upon the ground. “I’ve chosen the dress, and you cannot change my mind.”

“Lothì, I know I speak solely from vanity, but your clothing is rather important at this, a political event. I don’t _want_ to see you embarrassed or slandered by people who do not deserve you.” Well, he always had been the one prone to dramatics and exaggeration. But she knew he meant well. Of all her brothers Amrothos was the one prone to tears and fits of hysterics, father had once told her that you could hardly have someone of his brightness and joviality without balance upon the other side of the scale.

Lothìriel sighed, walking up to her brother and placing her hands in his, “Rothos, I’m wearing the dress you and Erchì and Phìr made. I can’t- _don’t_ want anything else.”

Without warning she felt her brother come crashing into her arms, his own winding around her as his chin came to rest over her shoulder. A laugh stifled itself in her throat as she felt her skin become damp at the feeling of tears, Amrothos’ chest and shoulders shaking in her embrace.

“I am happy for you, I swear it.” He finally managed to choke out.

Lothìriel only held on tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot take: milo is better than hot chocolate don’t @ me.
> 
> Most Rohirric bridal customs are taken from englatheod.org which details Anglo-Saxon and Viking wedding practises. Brýdgifu refers to a dowry that the bride's family give for the bride's personal use, brýdcéap the payment given for the bride by the groom's family, and morgengifu is the morning gift given the morning after the wedding. Like I've said in the past chapter, I'm not sticking entirely too close to these practises as I like having some room to explore different things though I do acknowledge that Tolkein based Rohirric culture off these traditions.
> 
> Also to answer a guest review left on ff.net who asked about the tradition of getting pregnant as a condition of marriage:  
> If a couple failed to conceive after a given period of time, they would be asked to separate (though of course there would be rare exceptions). If the woman were to conceive with another man, then it would reflect upon her first fiancé and he would perhaps be taken out of the marriage pool so to speak, and be given a position within Rohirric society that was riskier and saved for men with little familial ties. And vice versa with a woman who could not conceive. I like to think it isn’t something that would be viewed with shame, but more just parenthood as a ‘career’ isn’t right, and it would be more efficient if you did something else.  
> Traditions such as this have existed in the past and the T’boli tribe of Luzon in the Philippines did something pretty similar (but the couple were locked up in a smexy times tree house for a bit), and a community could work out if an individual was infertile or if a couple were just not well-suited to each other. But I like to think that as marriages for romantic love became more commonplace- moreso within the House of Eorl and other noble families, then this sort of tradition died out or was used a lot less. But uh, people will always be people and if the mess that is Medieval marriage (and divorce) is anything to go by, then they were eloping left right and centre.
> 
> Anyway, if you made it this far, thank you all so much for your reviews and let me know what you thought of this current chapter <3 I've loved hearing from each and every one of you!!!


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